Her Savage Scot: 1 (Highland Warriors) (21 page)

Six days later, she stood before her father and the King of
the Scots and the official marriage contract was signed. No earthquake split
the land. No lightning forked from the heavens.

And no beloved Scot warrior tore her from Fergus’ side and
swept her into his eternal embrace.

Connor, Talargan and many other warriors both Pict and Scot
had departed five days ago to subdue the Northumbrians. It was, all the kings
agreed, a timely message to send their mutual enemies that Pict and Scot would
now act as one.

Aila focused on maintaining her facade of calm. Her new
husband took her hand and she forced herself to acknowledge the well-wishes of
the nobles who had witnessed the joining.

There weren’t many. Only the Pictish kings and the more
senior nobles had remained behind with minimal warriors. The rest had
accompanied a contingent of Scots. Although it seemed a great many Scot
warriors remained in Dunadd.

A strange disconnect caused her stomach to heave. As if
there was a deadly significance to the number of Picts who went with the Scots
versus who stayed behind.

“Are you cold, my lady Devorgilla?” Fergus appeared not to
have grasped the fundamental fact her personal name was Aila. Not that she’d
corrected his assumption. She didn’t care what he called her, because whatever
he called her meant nothing. He raised her hand, brushed kisses across her
knuckles. She tensed so he couldn’t feel her shudder. “Tonight, my beloved
wife, I shall warm you up most satisfactorily.”

She would not think about tonight. And she most certainly
would not speak of it.

Fergus obviously misunderstood her silence, as he pulled her
close to his side. “Don’t worry.” His whisper against her ear was predatory. “I
understand your reticence. After so many years without a man you are likely as
fearful of our marriage bed as a virgin.” He sounded as though the notion
pleased him immensely.

Aila gave him her most regal glance. “Indeed, my lord, I am
certainly no virgin and do not fear the marriage bed as if I were one.”

A frown of irritation at her response carved his forehead
but there was no time for his reply. Another interminable feast loomed where
she was, yet again, to be on display like a rare acquisition from the Eastern
Empire.

* * * * *

Late that evening, after her ladies had washed her and
re-braided her hair in readiness for her wedding night, she sat on a stool
before the blazing fire, hugging her cloak about her with one hand and cradling
the kitten with her other.

She didn’t know how much longer she would have to wait for
Fergus. He’d informed her, with barely concealed incredulity, that his king
required his presence in the war chamber.

Fergus had been furious at the delay in claiming his rights.
And instead of relief at the postponement, Aila battled against a rising sense
of dark unease.

All day a suffocating fog of dread had clouded her mind. At
first she’d imagined it was because of the coming night. But it was more than
that. And separate from it. An intangible certainty that was, somehow,
inexplicably entwined with the terrifying dreams she’d suffered since arriving
in Dunadd.

Clutching the kitten, she stood, her cloak tumbling to the
floor. She didn’t know why but she couldn’t remain in the chamber.

“My lady.” Floradh hurried over to her. Her ladies had
already retired for the night. “Can I get you anything?”

The image of Connor with his black hair tousled from the
Highland wind invaded her mind. She hesitated as the seductive memory flowed
through her senses, momentarily calming her unease.

His stormy-gray eyes captivated her. His devastating smile
ensnared her. She blinked rapidly, attempting to dispel the illusion and thrust
the kitten into her servant’s arms. The need to escape this chamber overrode
every other thought and she hurried to the door. “I need to speak to my
father.”

“But why, my lady?”

She didn’t know why. She had left it far too late to change
her mind about this marriage now. And yet she needed to find him. “Because I
must.”

She stealthily descended the main spiral staircase, keeping
to the wall, peering into the gloom below, where only a solitary lantern
glowed. Although she wore only a light linen undergown—her bedgown—unnatural
warmth pounded through her body and sweat slicked her palms.

The hall was empty. She took a few cautious steps and
glanced toward the entrance of the great hall but it too appeared deserted.

Even the dogs that normally prowled had vanished.

She had to go outside
.

The thought came from nowhere and she glanced uncertainly at
the main doors, barred against the outside world.

It made no sense. She had to find her father. But she
couldn’t drag her fascinated gaze from the main doors. As if they were waiting
for her to throw back the bolts, run into the night and—

Into Connor’s arms.

It took all the willpower she possessed to turn her back on
the doors. Pain wrenched through her breast, compressed her lungs, but she
gritted her teeth and forced her reluctant feet forward.

Connor wasn’t here. And even if he were, she could never run
into the comfort of his arms.

And then the muted sounds of battle hit her. She froze,
terror skating through her. Had the Vikings penetrated Dunadd’s defenses? Was
that why the hill fort was deserted? Because everyone had been slaughtered in
their beds?

Primeval warning pounded through every beat of her heart,
every erratic gasp of her breath. A warning she didn’t want to understand. A
warning she couldn’t comprehend. And yet a warning she could no longer
disbelieve.

Images of slaughtered warriors seared her mind, scarlet
blood spraying; the stink of betrayal twisting her stomach. She was back at the
sacred standing stones, the day before she’d met Connor, battling the vision
that wasn’t a bad dream or suppressed memory.

It had been a premonition.

Heart hammering, she ran along the passageway, rejecting her
thoughts, until she stumbled to a halt by an open door. The stone walls
contracted, pressed onto her, squeezed the air from her lungs. Her brain fought
to deny the carnage unfolding but the nightmare was reality. Scot fought fallen
Pict, swords flashed in the flickering glow of lamps and blood drenched the
straw-covered floor.

“
Father
.
” Her terrified scream ripped from her
throat as she saw him knocked to the ground, defenseless against the armed Scot
who loomed over his prone body. Heedless of the danger she staggered into the
chamber, the sodden straw clinging to her bare feet in silent condemnation.

She flung herself at the Scot, using her body weight to push
him off balance, before sinking to her knees and cradling her father’s face
between her hands. Dimly she was aware of the Scot’s shocked curse at her
appearance, his obvious reluctance to plunge his sword through her as he had so
easily through her father.

The angry yells faded. All she could hear were the shuddering
gasps as her father attempted to drag air into his lungs. All she could see was
his beloved face and his eyes that tried to tell her what his voice could not.

“Be strong,” she whispered against his blood-stained lips.
“We will return to Ce, avenge this outrage.” Scalding tears blurred her vision
but she would not allow them to fall. Not allow her father to see how hopeless
vows of vengeance were. Because hope was all she could offer him in these last,
futile moments.

“We were betrayed.” His whisper drifted across her cheek.
“Forgive me, my daughter. For bringing you here.”

Corrosive guilt coiled around her weeping heart.
This was
her fault
.

Rough hands grasped her arms and hauled her to her feet.
Reacting on an instinct she had not relied on for more than nine years, she
snatched the dagger from the Scot’s belt.

“Fuck. Devorgilla.” Fergus dragged her sideways and she
stumbled over another dead Pict before she could use Fergus’ own weapon against
him. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Blood streaked his face and there was a savage gleam of
madness in his eyes. She reared back, dagger glinting, prepared to plunge the
blade into his exposed throat. Instead his fingers gripped her wrist, holding
her arm above her head in a merciless vise.

“Get her out of here, Fergus.” The roar vibrated the stone
walls. “Do your duty. The marriage is still valid.”

Aila swung around, her arm imprisoned by Fergus’ grip, and
saw the Scot king glaring across the chamber.

“The marriage is void.” She scarcely recognized her own
voice. “Do you think I’ll allow this treachery to go unchallenged?” Words and
images tumbled through her mind, making it hard to think, hard to speak. “The
King of Ce’s murder will be avenged. Our people will never—”

Her promise of retribution was swiftly severed as Fergus
dragged her bodily from the chamber, as if she were a slave, a woman without
rights. His chattel.

Rage pumped through her and a distant thundering barely
registered, except as a counterpoint to the thundering of blood pounding at her
temples and hammering through her heart.

He released her as soon as they reached an unfamiliar
passageway and stumbled back against the wall as if the exertion had exhausted
him. But his eyes never left hers.

“You shouldn’t have seen that.”

Her father’s lifeless body flashed through her mind. The
blood. The stench of betrayal. Renewed rage flared through her, smothering the
rising horror, the hovering specter of madness on her horizon.

“And that would make the slaughter acceptable?” She jabbed
Fergus’ dagger in his direction.

Fergus warily pushed himself upright. “We defended
ourselves, Devorgilla. Your countrymen were defeated.”

“You lie. My people would never attack their hosts in such a
manner.” She tried to calm her tangled thoughts, make plans. Strategize.

Escape. Before the cursed Scots murdered her as they had all
her kin.

“This changes nothing.” Fergus took an unsteady step toward
her. “We still have an alliance between our two peoples.”

Breath rasped in her throat. “You’ve murdered all my
people.” Fresh terror threatened to undo her. “I won’t let you murder my
brother.” She had to warn him. Had to…

Get outside
.

Find and warn the other Pictish nobles and warriors that
they returned to certain death.

Connor
.

He hadn’t been a part of this. And despite everything a tiny
flicker of hope glowed deep in the pit of her soul.

“Your brother is safe.” Fergus sounded as if every word was
an effort. “He’s been taken hostage. Along with all the others. Only a handful
of Picts died, my lady. As long as I remain alive your brother lives.”

After hammering on the thick timber doors for what seemed
eternity, Connor bit back an impatient curse when they finally opened. It
wasn’t usual to arrive so late, but Aila’s brother had insisted they continue
on to Dunadd instead of camping for the night. And because Connor had grown to
respect the younger man over the last few days, he’d thrown his weight behind
the request.

For one incredible moment as he and the other nobles stepped
inside, Connor thought they were being attacked. Chaos reigned, or so his
momentarily frozen mind assumed. But within a second, the impression of chaos
vanished and he realized what was truly happening.

The Picts he’d so recently ridden into battle with, men he’d
begun to know, were now surrounded by MacAlpin’s warriors who had stayed behind
to guard Dunadd.

“What the fuck’s going on?” he demanded, grabbing the
nearest warrior by the throat and shoving him backward. “The Picts are our
allies.”

The warrior knocked his arm aside. “We’ve orders to take the
Picts hostage. And take your fucking hands off me.”

Ice stabbed through his gut. “All the Picts?”

“Aye.” The warrior frowned. “Some of their kings turned on
MacAlpin. That’s all I know, MacKenzie.”

Connor glanced at Ewan, who was glaring at the scene as if
he’d very much like to pitch in with the Picts. None of the men who’d just
returned were lifting a finger to help their fellow Scots.

He pushed his way through the mass of bodies. One thought
thundered through his head.

What had happened to Aila?

The stench of spilled blood hit him first. Another step and
the sight of slaughtered bodies rammed into his brain, halting his advance. He
stood by the door and stared at the carnage and incomprehension battered the
edge of his mind.

“MacKenzie.” The harsh voice hammered through his fractured
thoughts and he turned to see his king striding toward him. “Thank God you’re
back.”

“My liege.” He bowed his head then looked back at the
bloodied scene. “What happened?”

MacAlpin stood by his side. “Foul betrayal. We were
attempting a civilized ratification of the line of succession of Fortriu and
the Pictish nobles turned on us.” He turned from the scene, clearly sickened.
“Fortunately the attack was contained. So long as the rest of the Pictish
kingdoms accept my rule of Fortriu, I won’t rescind on our alliance.”

He believed his king. But suspicion coiled in his gut. There
was something wrong about the position of the bodies. The lack of Scots
fatalities.

Something. But he couldn’t fathom what.

And then MacAlpin’s assertion hit him.

“The alliance stands?”

“Aye. I haven’t gone to all this trouble to let this,” he
jerked his head toward the war chamber, “stop me. Pictland needs a strong
leader, MacKenzie. One to bring all the kingdoms together. And this is the first
step.”

“Has the princess been told?” He’d recognized the King of Ce
as one of the dead. No matter what mac Lutin had said or done in the war
chamber, his daughter didn’t deserve to shoulder any blame. “She’s not being
held responsible for this?”

“Fuck no.” MacAlpin shot him a dark glare. “She’s our jewel.
It’s unfortunate she saw the aftermath of the massacre but Fergus took care of
her. At least I assume he’s taking care of her.”

Aila had witnessed this? God Almighty. And then his king’s
last flippant comment pierced his rising disgust.

Fergus was taking care of her? That meant only one thing.
Black rage seared his reason and without another word to MacAlpin he turned and
stormed toward his half brother’s bedchamber.

The balance had shifted. The King of Ce could no longer
object to his daughter marrying a commoner. The alliance could still stand.
This time he would convince MacAlpin to allow him to wed Aila, and Fergus could
damn well take another princess of Pictland.

His brother had no right to drag her into his chamber. No
right to force her to submit to his will.

No fucking right to have her.

He didn’t even bother knocking, just kicked the door open
and marched inside the antechamber. Fergus sprawled on a chair by the blazing
fire, his leg propped on a stool, and Aila stood by his side.

Aila.

His heart slammed as his throat tightened in horror. Her
white gown was soaked with crimson.

How could she have lost so much blood and still be standing?

“You’re injured.” It wasn’t a question. Every instinct he possessed
thundered for him to go to her, drag her into his arms, tell her everything
would be all right. But he remained frozen to the spot, unable to move a
muscle.

“Just a scratch,” Fergus said. “I’ll live.”

Connor dragged his gaze from Aila and stared blankly at his
brother. Only then did he see the blood staining his leg.

Aila held a Scot-made dagger. Had she attacked Fergus? But
if so, why was she standing by his side? Why hadn’t she escaped his chamber?

Why was she looking at
him
as though she wanted to
plunge her dagger into his flesh?

“You’re not hurt?”

Her lip curled. The depth of derision in that one small
gesture was as powerful as if she had spat in his face.

“There is nothing wrong with my wife, Connor,” Fergus said
with gloating emphasis. “And much as I appreciate your brotherly concern as to
my welfare, I don’t appreciate your company for my wedding night.”

Fergus was playing a dangerous game. “The wedding is
tomorrow.”

“Was tomorrow.” Fergus shifted on the chair. Connor glared
at him, unwilling to believe yet knowing, in his heart, his brother spoke the
truth. He was too late. “It was brought forward. Now.” Fergus shot Aila a
lascivious glance. Even now the stupid bastard had no idea his wife could
understand every word he uttered. “I’d like to be alone with my princess.” He
looked back at Connor. “Watch her unbind her hair for me and strip for my
pleasure.” He paused, allowing that image to burn itself into Connor’s mind.
And then he gave a slow, satisfied smile and thrust the blade in up to its
hilt. “A good fuck will improve my mood.”

* * * * *

Huddled within the furs she’d taken from the bed last night,
Aila sat on the chair before the dying fire, her gaze fixed on the figure of
her husband. Like her, he had not had a restful night, tossing and turning in
the bed as if demons stalked his black soul.

Beneath the furs, she gripped his dagger. How many times had
she imagined plunging it into Fergus’ heart as he snatched a few moments of
sleep? And each time his words came back to haunt her.

Her brother would remain alive as long as Fergus lived.

And so she had washed and bound the wound in his thigh as a
good wife should. And that had been the entire extent of wifely duties she had
performed.

She tried to focus on Fergus. Because when she thought of
him, she could keep other thoughts at bay.

But it was no good. Images of her slain father and the other
nobles flickered through her mind, tormenting her with the knowledge she had
seen their deaths foretold weeks ago. Had dreamed of the bloody massacre night
after night and still not understood what she was being shown.

And this was why she loathed Bride. For cursing her to
foresee events without the ability to comprehend what she was seeing. Without
the means to prevent what was to unfold.

Fergus stirred on the bed. Turned and caught her staring at
him. After a moment he heaved himself up, gritting his teeth.

She hoped his wound gave him great discomfort. She hoped it
had been her father who had given him the injury. But much as she craved his
death—the death of all Scots—she had to keep this one alive.

For Talargan.

He regarded her across the chamber, assessing her mood. “You
could have shared my bed, Devorgilla,” he said at last in Pictish, still
laboring under the delusion she was ignorant of his language. “I gave you my
word last night I wouldn’t claim my rights.”

Only because he feared reopening his wound with such
exertion. “Your word means nothing to me.”

His jaw clenched. “I don’t blame you for your countrymen’s
treachery. How can you blame me for merely defending my king?”

They had already had this conversation. It didn’t matter how
many times Fergus told her how her people had betrayed his. She didn’t believe
a word.

He winced as he made to rise from the bed. “There’s one
other stipulation in return for your brother’s continued good health.”

She refused to acknowledge him. After a moment he appeared
to realize.

“You will tell no one our marriage is as yet unconsummated.”
His voice was harsh. “If this marriage is declared void, I can’t answer for your
safety. Or that of your brother.”

* * * * *

Aila and her ladies were not, as she had feared, prisoners
confined to their chambers. It appeared she was allowed the same freedom she
had enjoyed during the last week with one exception.

Her royal guard now comprised of Scot warriors, not those
from Ce.

She walked aimlessly, holding her kitten close to her
breast, her thoughts in turmoil. Lowborn Pictish warriors retained their
freedom, if not their weapons, but she had yet to encounter any Pictish warrior
of noble blood.

But then she hadn’t expected to. Any noble who hadn’t been
murdered would be a hostage to their people’s good behavior.

How many hostages were held? She had only Fergus’ word that
Talargan was among them and she trusted his word as little as she trusted his
king’s. Suppose in reality he had been one of the slain?

Yet she couldn’t risk the possibility that he was still
alive.

Awareness prickled over her skin and she stopped dead as
Connor rounded a corner of the hill fort not four feet away. Impossible longing
washed through her, tightening the breath in her breast, causing her heart to
thud violently. He was the one man she had refused to think of. The only man
she wanted to think of.

He also stopped dead when he saw her and an incomprehensible
expression flashed over his face. As if she was the last person he wanted to
see. And yet the only person he wanted to see.

“My lady.” His voice was low and despite everything she knew
about his people, the pit of her stomach still fluttered in response to that
darkly seductive accent.

His hair tangled about his shoulders as if he too had
suffered a sleepless night. But she wouldn’t think of his hair. Wouldn’t recall
how soft and silky it felt beneath her fingers, nor think of how she had once
buried her face in that black mass and breathed his masculine essence into the
soul of her being.

She wouldn’t think on any of it. Because there lay true
madness.

Raw silence screamed between them and in her peripheral
vision she saw her ladies retreat, allowing them a degree of privacy.

“Lady Aila.” His voice dropped even lower, a dangerous
caress along her savaged senses. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

Her spine was so rigid she feared it would splinter. “I
don’t require your sympathy, MacKenzie.” Unlike him, she spoke in Pictish and
infused every word with the thousand years of her royal lineage. She couldn’t
let him see beneath her facade. Couldn’t let him see just how desperately she
craved his arms around her. His people had murdered hers and for that, how
could she forgive?

“Whatever happened last night,” he said, his accent twisting
through her as he responded in her language, “I deeply regret you saw any of
it. You didn’t deserve that, Aila. If I could take it back, I would.”

In her heart, she knew he meant every word. But why hadn’t
he stopped the massacre last night? Why hadn’t he stood up to his treacherous
king and saved her father?

She ignored his words of sympathy, as if by acknowledging
his kindness she would, somehow, be desecrating the memory of her slain countrymen.
Irrational
hammered through her mind but she ignored that too. “Is it
true my brother is held hostage by your king?”

His jaw clenched. “Aye.” He sounded as though he battled his
temper, that the knowledge Talargan was being held offended his honor.

“I see.” She did not believe a word Fergus told her, but
Connor would tell her the truth. “So he is held to ensure my cooperation in
this farce of an alliance.”

Connor’s gaze didn’t waver. “There are many hostages, Aila.
In these situations there always are.”

Her stomach roiled, her heart squeezed with pain. His people
were treacherous barbarians and yet she couldn’t hate Connor for what had
happened. Only blame him for not somehow possessing the means to stop it. She
knew he hadn’t been in the war chamber when she’d stumbled into the carnage. He
wasn’t a participant of the massacre against her kin.

But he had already returned to Dunadd from Northumbria when
the outrage occurred. How else had Talargan been taken hostage? How else had
Connor stormed Fergus’ bedchamber?

She attempted to offer him an icy smile, but failed. “So the
Scots often extend the hand of friendship only to betray that trust in the
foulest manner?”

“Christ, no.” He appeared to forget who they were, where
they were, as he took a step toward her. It couldn’t be possible and yet she
felt the heat of his body reach for her, as though he wanted to cocoon her from
the horrors of last night. “Aila, that isn’t what happened. We defended
ourselves against attack. But no one holds you accountable.”

Blackness engulfed her soul. Connor was defending the Scots’
act of cowardice by perpetrating the lies already fed to her by his half
brother.

She tilted her jaw at a regal angle, grateful for the soft
fur of the kitten that hid the way her fingers trembled. “I am accountable,
Connor MacKenzie. Never forget that. And no matter how your king attempts to
manipulate the events of last night I will never believe my people attacked.”